


take me as i am

by magicites



Category: Kamen Rider Build
Genre: Multi, Post-Canon, spoilers for the finale, the fic where misora's suffering ENDS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 04:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15811374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicites/pseuds/magicites
Summary: Misora can't help but wonder why all these people look sofamiliar.





	take me as i am

**Author's Note:**

> The Build ending KILLED ME in the best possible way so i wrote this in response.
> 
> Thanks Toei, for RabbitDragon, for Sawa, for Misora, and the beautiful mess that Build was

They come in three times a week like clockwork, appearing through the doors of the cafe as if they’d been patrons their whole lives. After a few weeks, Misora wonders how the cafe ever ran without those two sitting at the table in the far corner, scribbling all over each other’s papers, fighting over a lone tape recorder, and bringing life to her tiny corner of the world.

Her dad agrees - they’re both incredibly strange, but the type of strange that adds to their charm. The one that they first met turns out _not_ to be Taro Satou, but Sento Kiryuu. His companion is named Ryuuga Banjou, no relation to the pro boxer Ryusei Banjou, despite sharing the same face.

“Are you sure we haven’t met before?” she asks one afternoon, interrupting them as they get into a shoving match over who gets to speak into the tape recorder next. They drop the device to the table and look at her like a pair of criminals caught in the act. “And are you going to order something, or sit there squabbling like children?”

She’s seen near-perfect approximations of their faces on tv countless times, just as she’s stood at Taro Satou’s feet two separate times - and screamed herself hoarse during the concert, it was _that amazing_ \- but there’s something vastly different about these two that she can never quite shake.

Her dad doesn’t believe her, but she knows something else is there.

Looking at them makes her feel like something is missing, but she doesn’t know what.

There’s something sad hidden in Sento’s eyes as he answers, “No.” His smile wavers, prompting Banjou to shoot him a concerned look.

“Hey, uh,” Banjou squints at the menu on the table and jabs his finger at something, “I want one of these. Oh, wait, no! I want ramen!”

The moment is gone, lost in Banjou’s stupidity. Misora sighs. “I’ve told you, this is a cafe, not a ramen bar.”

“I want the instant stuff!”

“He’s kind of a moron,” Sento stage-whispers behind his hand, grinning like a wolf when Banjou scowls and tries to kick at him underneath the table.

Misora can’t stand morons most of the time, let alone moronic men. If Banjou were anyone else, she would have stormed away and made her dad serve them so she wouldn’t have to.

But instead of sparking irritation in her gut, all he sparks is fondness.

Her dad thinks she’s getting a crush on him, but she knows herself well enough to know that isn’t true. It’s something else. Something deeper.

Whatever it is, it prompts her to tell him, “You know what? If you bring your own protein ramen, I’ll make it for you. Now, do you want your usual coffees or not? We just ground some fresh beans this morning, so it’s especially good.”

Banjou orders three croissants - all for himself - and they each order a coffee. She brings their order to them a few minutes later. Even after returning to the counter, standing side-by-side with her dad as she cleans off the surface, she keeps an eye on them.

Like clockwork, they both grimace as they bring the cups up to the mouths.

Sip.

A look of surprise.

“I’ll never get over it being good,” Banjou grumbles into his cup.

Sento laughs. Nods. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

As a rule, Sawa does not trust people. There’s always more than one side to a story, always some truth waiting to be uncovered that no one can bring themselves to voice.

When she interviews Gentoku Himuro, sitting in his strangely decorated office, she feels an apology bubbling in the back of her throat.

It feels like a buried truth, although she has never spoken to him before tonight. She doesn’t know why.

He cooperates, answering her questions with a brevity that too many political figures love to ignore in favor of long-winded speeches packed with as many sound bites as possible. With every word, he tells a story of a deep-rooted love for his country.

She doesn’t trust people, least of all political figures, but she trusts him.

 

* * *

 

There are moments when Misora misses her dad so deeply that it feels like a piece of her has been ripped out and thrown away. Eyes wide and panic spiking in her heart, she whips her head around and finds him by the sink, drying a cup and watching her with a grin.

He’s never left her side. Her mother died when she was young, and after that he retired from his job as an astronaut so he could raise Misora.

He opened up this shop so he wouldn’t have to leave her again. So long as he lived, she’d never have to be alone. He promised.

Her dad tilts his head towards the group at the counter, reminding her to do her job.

“It’s closing time, Grease,” Misora says, tapping his boot with the edge of her sandal. He and his boys - he called them coworkers, and she suspects that they’re all full-time co-presidents of his fanclub of three - are at the counter yet again, drinking far too much coffee for their own good and trying in vain to convince her to be an online idol.

“Aw man, why do you always call me that!?” Grease says, throwing his head back with a groan. “My name is Kazumi! Ka-zu-mi!”

“Or Kazu _min_ ,” one of his boys replies with a sunny grin and a giggle.

Misora stops. Why _does_ she call him Grease? She knows what the word means in Japanese, and he’s anything but that. He’s clean and well-groomed, if she overlooks the occasional dirt underneath his fingernails he gets when he spends a long weekend at his family’s farm.

But _grease_?

“It’s a better name for you,” she lies, rolling her eyes.

She thinks about using his name. She really does.

“Now go home, Grease. I need to put those stools up.”

But she’s too afraid to, and she has no clue why.

 

* * *

 

Sawa is used to having strange eyes follow her. Even in this era, there aren’t many women who report anything more hard-hitting than the weather, let alone for the premier political magazine in the country. Out of the dozen reporters she shares an office with, there are maybe two other women on her staff.

And people always comment, because men apparently can’t help but point out her gender whenever they get a chance.

It usually isn’t a problem, but she’s always careful to hold her keys between the gaps of her fist. Just in case.

She’s been through too much to not know how to defend herself.

The eyes that follow her now as she walks through a park aren’t malicious. They feel almost…

Melancholy.

Sawa glances around and casually walks over to the first bench she finds. She sits, graceful as ever, and pulls a notebook out of her purse. She’s careful to make sure that all any prying eyes would see is a woman reading over her journal. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Her eyes dart up from the random page she opens to and look around, searching for whoever keeps watching her.

She doesn’t expect to see the spitting image of Taro Satou and Ryusei Banjou, sitting side-by-side and looking at her as if they’re mourners at her funeral.

The Banjou-lookalike scrubs at his eyes and mutters something to Satou, who rests his head on his shoulder.

She makes a note of this in her journal - something to research later, once she’s back at home - and stands up. She starts towards them, a dozen excuses coming to mind in case they grow suspicious of her.

Again, they completely subvert her expectations by the way their faces light up, sharing a pair of twin smiles, when she approaches.

It makes her think of family.

She dismisses the thought; she’s never had a family, nor has she ever needed one.

These men are just some strange celebrity imposters who probably find her attractive.

“Have we met before?” she finds herself saying.

There’s that melancholy look again, though from this close she can see the different way it reflects in each of their characters. One is raw, coursing through him like a stream of fire; the other soft, a baby rabbit left behind when its mother gets caught in a hunter’s trap.

And yet they continue to smile, a brittle kindness that can only be born after you’ve lost something you once loved dearly. She knows it well.

“No. I’m Kiryuu Sento, and this musclehead is Banjou Ryuuga. We just moved here,” he says, the words falling off his tongue so easily, the way that half-truths always do.

A less experienced journalist would have accepted that answer, but Sawa didn’t get to the top without knowing when to dig deeper. “From where?” she asks, careful to keep her tone light.

There’s a half-second of delay, just enough for Sawa to take note of, before Banjou hastily says, “Touto! It’s uh, far away.”

“ _Really_ far away,” Sento adds. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you haven’t heard of it before.”

“I haven’t,” Sawa says, making a note to research the place later. She knows Japan like the back of her hand, but she’s never heard of a place called Touto before.

She doesn’t trust them, but despite her better judgement, she wants to.

 

* * *

 

“Why does he look familiar?” Misora asks her dad as a man comes into the store. His hair is slicked back in a style only worn by gangsters or rich men, and while the leather jacket speaks to one, the crisp black slacks speak to another.

“You don’t know?” her dad says with a chuckle. He leans close to her and whispers, “That’s the prime minister’s son, Himuro Gentoku. He’s also his top aide. Big name in the country.”

Misora doesn’t care enough for politics to keep up with who is the new Minister of Whatever. She has no reason to know this man, and yet, she feels like she does.

She wants to cry again, just like she does whenever she sees Sento and Banjou and whenever she thinks about calling Grease by his real name, but she doesn’t know why.

He approaches the counter and leans on it, using his free hand to lift his jacket up slightly.

His t-shirt is a gaudy, awful pink, emblazoned with a request for a coffee. He gestures to it and looks off into the distance.

Misora’s eye twitches, even as her dad chuckles and starts to brew a new cup.

“Get out.”

The man looks at her. “What?”

“Your shirt is awful, and you should feel awful about wearing it here,” she responds, feeling almost like she’s falling into a routine even as the words escape her. Has she said this before?

She can feel her dad’s eyes on her and braces herself for the scolding she knows she’ll get later. It’s one thing to talk back to customers who are rude to her - it’s a different thing to talk back to a customer who hasn’t said a single word.

And it’s an entirely _different_ matter to talk back to one of the top political figures in Japan.

Instead of getting angry, the man chuckles, as if it’s a routine he’s used to as well. “I thought this one would get your approval.”

They all freeze and the man looks at her as if seeing her for the first time.

“Have… have we met before?”

 

* * *

 

Touto doesn’t exist.

Sawa spends hours in her tiny apartment, forgoing the article she’s supposed to write on the prime minister’s press conference in favor of researching the false hometown of two men who she spoke to for five minutes.

She’s been in political journalism for the majority of her career. She isn’t meant to be a detective, didn’t get a degree just to be some half-baked detective that operates out of shoddy internet message boards, and yet here she is, no better than any of them.

Why does this feel so important?

And why does she feel like she’s done this before?

Still unable to sate her curiosity, she searches their names, and finds absolutely nothing. No social media, no newspaper articles, no information at all.

The next day, she uses her press pass to look into citizen records. The legality of the whole affair is questionable at best, but if it’s a harmless law, then it does no harm to break it.

As far as the country of Japan is concerned, Sento Kiryuu and Ryuuga Banjou do not exist.

 

* * *

 

“What’s that giant stack of paper for?” Misora asks, slipping into the third chair Banjou and Sento have started to pull over just for her. She spends her breaks with them these days, and the routine puts her at peace.

It’s like a piece of herself she didn’t know was missing has fallen into place, now that they’re here.

That puzzle still isn’t complete, but she’ll take what she can get.

“I wrote an action show. Hopefully I can pitch it to a studio soon, and see if they’ll take it,” Sento explains, smug as ever.

“Hey, I helped write it too!” Banjou protests, only to receive Sento’s hand smashing into his face and pushing him away.

“Please. You barely know how to write your own name.”

“I know how to write my name _and_ your name! What about that, huh!?”

Misora laughs. They do this almost every time they’re here, and hearing their banter always feels like home.

She reaches out to the stack of papers. They’re always so secretive about it, and she’d love to read whatever has taken up most of their attention for the past few months. The moment her hand creeps close, Sento and Banjou both throw themselves over the script.

“I-it’s not done yet!” Sento protests. Banjou nods emphatically, mouth set in a grim line.

Misora crosses her arms and leans back. “Well fine. Be stupid and secretive about it.”

When she gets back to work, they refuse to let the script out of their sight.

But she doesn’t miss the way their hands intertwine under their small table.

 

* * *

 

Sawa sees Sento and Banjou in that same park long before they see her. Slowly, she approaches them, questions bursting in the forefront of their mind.

How can two people simply _not exist_?

And, as a smaller voice reminds her, why hasn’t she told anyone else yet?

She finds her answer in the way they eagerly wave her over to the bench they share. They sit with their thighs pressed against one another’s despite the ample space the bench supplies, sharing their breaths in a way that just friends never would.

They scoot over and make room for her on that small bench, in the exact way that friends do.

Sawa has so few of those.

“Would you like one?” Sento asks, pulling a curry bun out of what she assumes is Banjou’s backpack. He offers it to her with a smile like spring sunshine.

“That’s my favorite,” she says, accepting it. Something unreadable flashes in his eyes. Next to him, Banjou buries his face in the bowl of instant ramen he holds.

“What a coincidence,” Sento says, leaning back and looking up to the sky. It’s late summer, but not late enough for the storms to begin. Sawa idly wonders how much longer the beautiful weather will hold up.

The weather is beautiful this time of year, she’s at her dream job, and yet, something still continues to be amiss in Sawa’s life.

Maybe the men next to her hold the answer she’s spent so long looking for.

Maybe.

 

* * *

 

There is no way Grease and Gentoku Himuro, aide to the prime minister of Japan, should know each other.

There is no possible way.

But Misora sees a dual spark of recognition in their eyes when Gentoku takes the remaining seat at Nascita’s counter, directly next to Grease.

Misora takes a few cups out of the drying rack and places them back in their proper locations, careful not to let the ceramic clink too loudly and prevent her from hearing their conversations. They fumble through conversation topics in the way that strangers usually do, awkward and hesitant and full of too many general comments about the weather that drive her up the wall.

At the same time, there’s something in the way they talk to each other that’s deeper than that.

Grease calls him Beardo, the nickname slipping off his tongue like it’s always been there. Gentoku groans, voice full of a fondness that shouldn’t be there for a stranger.

Misora watches them and wonders if it’s possible to miss someone you’ve never met before.

 

* * *

 

Wednesdays become special.

On Wednesdays, regardless of whatever report Sawa needs to write or interview she needs to conduct, she finds herself in that same park where she first met Sento and Banjou.

On Wednesdays, Banjou slurps his instant ramen and frowns like a child whenever Sento teases him about it.

On Wednesdays, Sento gives Sawa her favorite curry bun and saves an omelet with far too much sugar in it to be healthy for himself.

They don’t know that she knows their secret, but she promises to keep it safe.

She doesn’t know where they came from or why they’re here, but as the Wednesdays continue to pass by, dreamy and wonderful like a cloud without the heavy threat of rain, she stops caring.

They’re here, and that’s all that matters.

 

* * *

 

It takes so, so long for Sento and Banjou to finally let their guard down long enough for Misora to take a peek at their script. It’s only the three of them here today - her dad is off picking up a new shipment of beans, and the day’s been slow when it comes to the number of customers trickling in and out.

Right now, Sento’s outside on a phone call, and Banjou snores softly at their table, soundly asleep.

(And how long, she wonders, has she been referring to it as _their_ table, even when they’re not around to sit at it?)

Misora gently slides it off their table and opens to the first page.

It’s a… script. About Sento.

She starts skimming through the pages, only to notice more familiar names.

Banjou.

Gentoku.

Her own.

Her father’s.

Grease, going by the nickname she always calls him.

Some names she doesn’t recognize, but reading them making something primal, something that feels like it was born worlds away, roar within her.

The name _Evolt_ strikes fear deep into her soul, almost enough to make her throw down the script and run away.

The name _Vernage_ feels like what she always imagined her mother’s embrace would feel like.

The name  _Takumi Katsuragi_ feels like betrayal.

And then…

Sawa.

She’s crying by the time Sento comes back in, carefully shutting the door behind him so he won’t wake Banjou. His extra effort is for nothing, because Misora immediately shouts upon seeing him.

“Is this some kind of joke!?” she asks, slamming the packet of papers back onto their table and waking Banjou up with a start.

Banjou looks around wildly, confused and muscles taut as if expecting a fight, but Sento is nothing but sadness. “You weren’t supposed to find out like this,” he says.

“Who… who are you?” she asks, not for the first time but feeling entirely like it.

 

* * *

 

A few months back, right before Sawa first met Sento and Banjou, there were reports of something in the air _shifting._

No one has been able to explain it, not fully. But the articles all say the same thing, character and character repeating the same line.

Something changed, but no one knows what or why.

She can’t shake the feeling that the two are connected.

 

* * *

 

Misora tells her dad all about what she read, because there is nothing in her life that Soichi Isurugi does not know about.

She doesn’t know what to think. She _trusted_ them. They were her friends, people who brightened her day and made her feel like her world was finally settling into what it was meant to be.

But to write an entire tv show about her - and about a life she never led? All without her permission? It’s crazy.

She can’t trust them.

She can’t trust herself, either, not after such poor judgement.

But as she tells her dad this, all he does is offer that same grin that he always does - the one that tells her that everything, no matter how grim, will be okay. It doesn’t entirely put her at ease, but it helps.

“There are some things in this world we can’t explain,” he says smiling off into the distance like he knows something that she doesn’t. “Maybe they’re one of them.”

“How can you _believe_ them!?” Misora protests. “Things like that - worlds colliding, people being half alien, Mars having a _queen_ \- none of that happens in real life!”

“Sure it does! We just don’t see it.”

Misora storms off and throws herself onto her bed.

She wants to wrap her arms around a stuffed animal, something ridiculously big and so cute its kind of ugly, but she doesn’t own anything like that.

That feels like it’s missing, too. Another thing she didn’t know she missed until she met Sento and Banjou.

 

* * *

 

It’s a Wednesday, and although it’s almost too cold to eat outside anymore, the warmth Sawa shares with Banjou as she huddles into his side - and he huddles into Sento’s - is enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay.

His instant ramen is especially hot, forcing him to use the sleeves of his bomber jacket as makeshift mittens so he doesn’t burn his hands. Colorful dragons snake over the fabric on his shoulders, and for some reason, it looks like nothing else should belong on him.

She doesn’t understand why.

A pair of footsteps walking by makes her look up from inspecting Banjou’s jacket. “Kazumin!” she says, the name escaping her before she even realizes what she’s said. A surge of joy races through her at the sight of him, a man who she knows she’s never met before now.

Banjou and Sento exchange confused looks, just as the man approaches them.

“Banjou. Sento,” he says, nodding to each man in question. “But do I know you?” he asks, leaning down to get a better look at Sawa. She sees a spark of recognition in his eyes and he backs away slightly, sharing the same surprise that she feels.

“ _How_ do I know you?” he asks, amending his earlier question.  

“How do I know _you_?” she replies.

“You don’t,” Banjou says around a mouthful of noodles. “Well, not here.”

“Banjou, what’s your problem,” Sento hisses, elbowing him roughly in the side, nearly causing broth to splash all over Sawa’s nice pants. Banjou corrects himself right before the liquid sloshes over the edge, saving Sawa from a gross fate.

“What!? If Misora found out, then don’t you think they will too!?”

“Find out what?” Kazumin asks cautiously.

Sawa is cautious too, but they’re the first friends she’s had in a long time. Despite her best instincts, she trusts them.

When they finally explain things to her, she isn’t sure if she quite believes them, but something about their story makes sense in a way that it isn’t supposed to.

Stories, even the most fictional ones, are built on grains of truth.

Except something about this doesn’t feel as fictional as it should be. There’s always something deeper to any story ever reported.

Maybe this is the truth she’s always looked for, finally uncovered for her to see.

 

* * *

 

Neither Sento nor Banjou come into Nascita over the next two weeks.

That’s six times that they should be there that they aren’t.

Misora isn’t even sure if she wants to see them, but at the same time, each time she expects to see them only for their table to remain empty feels like a knife to her heart.

It’s worse when someone else sits where they should be.

They never come in on Wednesdays, so she isn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary when the bell above the door rings. Misora pops over to the front counter and prepares her best, customer-winning smile. “Welcome to Cafe Nascita! Please, take a seat anyw-”

She stops.

Sento stands in front of her, an apologetic smile plastered on his face as if that’s all it will take for her to forgive him.

She hasn’t known him for long - a few months at most, so why does it feel like they’ve gone through this before? Why does it feel like she’s always trying to get him to stay?

Banjou slips through the door moments later, whispering something that she can’t make out before shutting it besides her.

She wants to cry, or scream, or something.

Instead, she smiles, because Sento just isn’t the same if Banjou isn’t at his side.

Somewhere besides her, her dad grins.

“I’m sorry,” Sento says, Banjou nodding emphatically at his side. “But even if you don’t want to see me anymore, there’s someone I think you should meet.”

She wants to tell him to leave. She really should.

Ban them from the cafe, keep them from ever stopping by again. Suffer the losses their steady patronage has afforded the shop - their coffee is good enough to take the dent. They’ll attract other customers.

She doesn’t know why she says what she does next. “Okay.”

Banjou opens the door and makes a gesture that she can’t see. She watches the curves of his shoulders move up and down as his arms do _something_.

Grease walks through, smiling at her for a brief second before averting his gaze.

Gentoku Himuro, top aide to the prime minister of Japan, inevitably tacky shirt thankfully concealed by his leather jacket, follows after him.

“What’s going on?” Misora asks.

Banjou leaves the door open and pokes his head through it again. She hears him this time. “Come in!”

He steps aside, allowing a girl to walk in. She looks around curiously, taking in her surroundings with sharp, intelligent eyes.

Those same eyes fall on Misora, and she feels the wind get knocked out of her chest, leaving her suddenly breathless.

Misora doesn’t know her, and yet, she does.

“Sawa,” she breathes, like a prayer stolen away by the wind.

“Misora,” she replies, voice thick with tears like she’s waited her entire life for this moment.

Misora vaults herself over the counter with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, adrenaline and joy rushing through her veins and setting every part of her body on fire. She wraps her arms around Sawa’s waist and presses her face into her shoulder, tears streaming down her face.

And here, it all clicks. All she pieces she’s ever missed fall into place, right here, with her family surrounding her.

 

* * *

 

And this, this girl in her arms and her happy tears soaking the fabric of Sawa’s shirt, feels like the only truth that has ever mattered.


End file.
